When the hours of Day are numbered, <br /> And the voices of the Night <br />Wake the better soul, that slumbered, <br /> To a holy, calm delight; <br /> <br />Ere the evening lamps are lighted, <br /> And, like phantoms grim and tall, <br />Shadows from the fitful firelight <br /> Dance upon the parlor wall; <br /> <br />Then the forms of the departed <br /> Enter at the open door; <br />The beloved, the true-hearted, <br /> Come to visit me once more; <br /> <br />He, the young and strong, who cherished <br /> Noble longings for the strife, <br />By the roadside fell and perished, <br /> Weary with the march of life! <br /> <br />They, the holy ones and weakly, <br /> Who the cross of suffering bore, <br />Folded their pale hands so meekly, <br /> Spake with us on earth no more! <br /> <br />And with them the Being Beauteous, <br /> Who unto my youth was given, <br />More than all things else to love me, <br /> And is now a saint in heaven. <br /> <br />With a slow and noiseless footstep <br /> Comes that messenger divine, <br />Takes the vacant chair beside me, <br /> Lays her gentle hand in mine. <br /> <br />And she sits and gazes at me <br /> With those deep and tender eyes, <br />Like the stars, so still and saint-like, <br /> Looking downward from the skies. <br /> <br />Uttered not, yet comprehended, <br /> Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, <br />Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, <br /> Breathing from her lips of air. <br /> <br />Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, <br /> All my fears are laid aside, <br />If I but remember only <br /> Such as these have lived and died!<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/footsteps-of-angels/
